


Don't Forget, Sherlock

by round_and_round



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-03 02:24:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17275325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_and_round/pseuds/round_and_round
Summary: Sherlock remembers the past years





	Don't Forget, Sherlock

_One_

_Two_

_Three_

Sherlock thinks about the past decade of his life. The meeting. The candlelit dinner. Cases. Blogs. Hats. Lovesick dominatrices. Consulting criminals. Deaths, or rather fake deaths. Weddings. A best man speech that was really more of a last desperate confession. A baby with John's eyes. One they have to pick up from Molly’s at 5:30. Don’t forget about Rosie, Sherlock.

           

_Eleven_

_Twelve_

_Thirteen_

 

            He remembers everything. It’s all tucked away in mental rooms. Yet, somehow, he can’t recall what made him fall in love with John or when it happened. John Watson who worries about him sleeping or eating, John Watson whose favorite tea is Earl Grey, and who doesn’t like the sweet biscuits but buys them for Sherlock anyway. John Watson who steals Sherlock’s nicotine patches and hides them in the same 7 places. Sherlock remembers all of this, remembers the exact shape of John’s face, and has memorized his footsteps, but he doesn’t remember what made him start standing outside John’s door at midnight, tormented over whether he should open the door or not. When did that happen? At some point Sherlock starting paying less attention to what John was saying and more on how his lips were moving. Eventually, Sherlock laid awake at night, not because his brain never slowed down enough for sleep, but because he couldn’t sleep in an empty bed anymore. It made John worried when Sherlock would pass out for 5 minutes at the table or in the cab, but how could Sherlock explain without everything crashing down? Sherlock, the man who knows 242 types of tobacco ash and who can solve a murder with a glance, has never felt so helpless.

            He should have acted sooner. He closes his eyes.

 

_Seventeen_

_Eighteen_

_Nineteen_

            They had just come back from a case. Adrenaline pumping, trying to catch their breaths. John starts laughing and Sherlock looks at him. It’s been a long time that Sherlock has been in love with John Watson and for some reason, today he has to act upon it. Despite that decade old knot in his stomach that, despite his resistance to emotion, Sherlock can’t seem to shake, despite that and everything else, Sherlock finds himself leaning in. He grazes John’s smile with his lips. Before darting back, hoping that he didn’t just destroy it all. Sherlock watches emotions he doesn’t know flicker through John’s gorgeous eyes. God, John is _gorgeous._ He is about to apologize to John, say he read the situation wrong, and he won’t try it again. He is about to take back the only good thing he’s done when John steps closer, wraps an arm around Sherlock’s waist, and kisses him. It is deep and soft. It is years of hidden emotions packed into one moment. Sherlock breathes in John’s scent, aftershave and shampoo and London smog and more combinations Sherlock could never define. John’s other hand slides into Sherlock’s hair. With this, this one moment, Sherlock’s existence locks into place. He is kissing John Watson and everything is alright with the world. His mind quiets for the first time in his life and Sherlock feels as if he now knows what it’s like to be human. And then-

 

_Twenty-four_

_Twenty-five_

_Twenty-six_

            Sherlock opens his eyes. _No._ He needs to focus. He can’t imagine his fantasies. He wants to be distracted from what’s really happening but John needs him now. After this, Sherlock thinks, we can move to the country. Where this is no smog and Rosie can run around all she likes. He and John can grow old and happy. Like his imaginations, John’s lips _are_ soft. And he smells like all those things but Sherlock can only smell the rust and the cold wet of the sidewalk. His lips are soft but Sherlock never wanted to feel them like this. What is it with these Watsons and their self-sacrificing tendencies? The gasp that John made as the bullet hit him echoes in his brain. John looked at Sherlock. Those blue eyes were sorry but not regretful. John whispered Sherlock’s name and fell. Now blood still spreads under Sherlock fingers. Part of Sherlock’s brain is telling him that it’s been too long, too much blood, and that John Watson is not coming back. A voice whispers to him that John Watson will never buy him biscuits again, or grumble about messy experiments, and John will never look at Sherlock with those eyes ever again. There is a voice telling Sherlock that but all he can focus on is that John’s favorite jumper is currently being ruined. He’ll have to take it to the dry cleaners so John can wear it again. Never mind that the workers will be concerned about the blood. _Please breathe, John._

 

_Twenty-Eight_

_Twenty-Nine_

_Thirty_

Someone- Lestrade -puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock starts to cry. After all this, why does he have to lose John? Lestrade is talking but Sherlock doesn’t hear it. John is not here to remind Sherlock that he has to listen. Sherlock looks up and sees Mycroft’s car and reality settles in. He presses his lips to John’s, quickly and without a word, Sherlock stands up and is moving. Running even. He doesn’t know where to go.

 

221 B

 

          Of course, Sherlock would end up here. It’s the only home he’s ever known. He opens the door. Mrs. Hudson comes out of her flat. And she screams at the sight of Sherlock his hands covered in blood. He can barely choke out a ‘John’ before leaving Mrs. Hudson and her tears behind.

 

          Sherlock sits in his chair. Someone is knocking at the door but it’s been locked, the couch pushed up against it. And besides, he doesn’t care. It’s been an hour and seventeen minutes by his count. There’s blood under his thumbnail. He stares at John’s chair. There was something he was supposed to do but he can’t remember. At some point, he finds himself in John’s room. He steals John’s pillow. What was he supposed to remember?

_Sherlock_

          The voice is back. The one that told him John was gone. Only this time, Sherlock recognizes it.

 

_Don’t forget about Rosie, Sherlock._

_You can’t forget about Rosie._

            Sherlock sighs and moves the couch. He ignores Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. They’ll follow him he’s sure but he can’t blame them. He hails a cab and gives the address. He wonders if Molly knows yet. Surely she must. Sherlock looks at the empty seat next to him and swears that, for a second, John is sitting there smiling at him. He loves John’s smile.

 

 _It’s okay._ He misses John’s voice. It’s been an hour and forty-three minutes and he misses so much. He misses John.

_You did the best you could._

_I love you._

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I should say this is based off a Tumblr post I saw. I'm not sure who made the post but if it's you...wicked and thanks. Also, sorry I made this really sad.


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